The Wall
by florescentviggo
Summary: Rambo visits the Vietnam War Memorial. Please R&R.


The sun glistened off the iron railings as he inched closer and closer to the black granite walls reflecting the images of hundreds of tourists clamoring by. With six laminated cards in his hand, he watched the people slowing reading the names one by one, so many lay before their eyes, setting in their minds the harsh reality of war. Slowly he moved forward, dark eyes reflecting the suffering he felt in his heart, grabbing onto what bitter- as well as sweet- memories he had left of his now dead friends. Some people just didn't understand, didn't understand what the names meant, what they stood for, but he did. He somehow knew them all, through the same thing- the sacrifices they had made for freedom. "Freedom is not free" was carved in the granite, and the statement was bitter, yet true, and somehow revealed the harsh realities of it to him all over again. Each of the men was in a sense his brother, and he felt he should have given them each a tribute, but knew it was impossible. He had to do what he could to keep the memories alive.  
Moving slowly down the line he saw name after name after name, carved into the rock with great skill and care. The names, he decided, had been carved beautifully enough to satisfy him. He scanned the black granite block with a long thin finger, searching for the names. When he found one, he carefully placed a card so that it rested against the shiny black rock. Around him everyone was staring, watching him lost in his reflective moment. He looked almost normal, wearing a pair of light blue jeans on his skinny almost toothpick like legs, and a light red sweater which was hidden under an army jacket worn and faded, that hid his muscular upper body. Nothing about his hair was truly out of the ordinary. It hung loosely around his shoulders a bit, and was now a mass of large sweaty curls dripping from the heat. His nose was hooked, his upper lip looked slightly upturned, and his long black eyebrows arched gracefully over a pair of deep brown chocolate eyes. His eyes transmitted a sort of irregularity about him, and made the whole crowd of people stare at him as he moved them up and down the granite, his peripheral vision catching the constant stares. His chest heaved up every now and then, and his mouth transmitted a sort of sigh out of it, every time he laid down a card.  
He continued walking, down towards the center of the wall, already having laid down at least four out of the six cards he had in his hand. Tributes written into the rock stared down at him, and he stared at the countless roses and carnations that laid next to the dismal granite. He studied them, and slowly he bent down and sniffed the beautiful fragrance that came out of the flower, rekindling some of his more happy moments. The people staring began to grow, something about this man haunted in their minds, and seemed to haunt the place, like an old ghost returned from the past, saddened to see his friends gone from death, having been the only one to survive himself. He always felt like a ghost, unwanted, unloved, and uncared for in this world. Some days he wish he could be dead like his friends, at least he could get respect. He transmitted so much emotion in his movements, overcoming the others around him, throwing himself in sort of a dark dance, sorrowful yet graceful in it's ways. Other veterans watched him, noted his jacket, torn and ripped from age, the name nearly worn off. All they could make out was R-bo, J-n, J. No one even knew who he was, it was almost as though his past had been blown away, even his name taken from him.  
Finally he was beginning to solemnly walk by the end of the wall, and dropped the last two cards beside it. As he crouched down next to the wall he stared longingly at the picture and the letter that was written next to it in his scrawled handwriting. Each word echoed in his mind, and he remembered sitting and writing them, fighting back the tears that had welled up in his eyes. Longing filled his heart and he felt sad all over again, felt each of their deaths all over again. He relived each agonizing moment, images flashed in his mind, and made him feel sick to his stomach remembering the blood, the tears, and the emotions of those moments. As he stood there he felt something fall down his face, and he knew that for the first time in over ten years he was crying. At first he had denied it thinking it was sweat, but now he realized he was crying, crying over his friends, their deaths, and the longing inside him to die so he could be with them. He slowly bent his head down and sobbed quietly, teeth clenched, eyes wrenched shut, nose running, and head hurting. He felt all his anger release, felt his sadness suddenly fly off his shoulders like a noble eagle flying out into the sunset on another one of it's journeys. The coldness left, and the longing left for a few moments, so that it was only him and his grief, locked in that moment, the rest of the world paused but still watching him. He buried his face inside his hands and his legs, which he had been kneeling on, collapsed underneath him. The sobs were quiet, but his whole body was shaking from them, heaving every now and then quite violently. Everyone watched him, pity flew over their eyes, and sadness drifted into their hearts. They could only watch him, and would never understand the pain he had been through for over thirty years.  
After another minute or so, he finally rose up, his thin legs slowly bending straight again, eyes dry, but still red. He walked past the granite with a slow, steady stride, his head held higher now, as people watched him his burdens flying away into the sky with his friends, hopefully never to be felt again by his heart. Slowly he reached inside his sweater and pulled out a pair of jingling worn-out looking dogtags which read: Rambo, John J. Taking them carefully in his hand he held them tight, glad for the first time in his life that he had been a Green Beret. And as he walked away, things returned to normal again, except for one thing, instead of a look of grim sorrow, he had a slight smile across his face, and a look of freedom in his eyes. 


End file.
